The Underdogs
by Goldenheart of RiverClan
Summary: Fourteen-year-old Soraya Annison always hoped for a revolution, something to free her from a stifling, artificial existence in the Capitol. She thought that the Mockingjay would bring her that freedom. However, when the Hunger Games come to the Capitol for one last round, sweeping her and two of her friends into their grip, it becomes clear to her that the war is far from over.
1. Soraya and Holly

**Author's Notes: **This, in a very small nutshell, is the story of the Hunger Games with Capitol children that Katniss and company voted on at the end of _Mockingjay_. Specifically, the story of three of the Capitol's tributes, who are introduced in the following two chapters. While I know that the Capitol Hunger Games didn't really appear to _happen _in _Mockingjay_, I mostly made it that way because I had a story to tell and no setting in which to tell it, and this seemed perfect, the closest thing to a canon-compliant story that I have ever written. However, I've took a few (minor) artistic liberties with the story **(and yes, these are important)**:

Thes Games were supposed to showcase tributes who were related to people of power in the Capitol, but I decided to change that and have a more traditional reaping instead, mainly because I screwed up and forgot about that part when I was writing.

There will be a grand total of 30 tributes chosen. The process goes that ten Capitol schools, five middle schools and five high schools (assuming we're still going by that system), will be chosen from a lottery, and from there, three tributes will be chosen from each, either all male or all female. It had to be like that to make the story work...

And, lastly, one particular character who should have died in the Quarter Quell is alive, partly because it added another facet to the story, and partly because I liked her enough that I wanted to keep her around. That'll be explained in a few chapters.

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games, or anything related to it.**

The title of "_Pass Slowly_" is done after my favorite song by Seether, which I felt was somewhat emblematic of everything that goes on in the story. Yeah, I don't own that, either.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Pass Slowly<br>**_or,_ The Hunger Games of Conway High School_

_"Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." __— John 15:13_

_**Chapter 1: Soraya and Holly  
><strong>_or,_ Worried Sick_

It's only a few days after the revolution ends when the doors of Conway High School open up again, and anyone's hopes of having an extended reprieve from school are dashed.

Really, three days is asking a lot as it is. There could have been no downtime at all—the collateral damage from the revolution is bad, but our school is near the edge of the Capitol, where the population is thin enough that nobody would bother to stage a rebellion. The school, as well as the homes of most of its students, came out of the war without a single scratch to show for it.

The only reason that the school closed in the first place was so that the students and their families could settle the affairs left behind by the rebellion. These aren't normal affairs, of course, no happy or trivial affairs—no job offers; no decisions on higher education; no fashion shows or concerts to attend. More like extensive property repairs. Medical bills. Funeral costs. Mourning. Even just taking stock of who's okay and who's not, as depressing as it was that some people still had no idea if their friends and family had made it through the revolution.

No, these were dismal affairs indeed, ones that most people never see here in the Capitol, not on a scale like this.

I was one of the lucky ones. No repairs. No dead relatives or close friends, since we weren't anywhere near the danger—my mom's side of the family lives over on the mountainside, my friends live near me, and my dad's Capitolite mother and siblings were just lucky enough not to be anywhere where there was pandemonium.

Instead, the entirety of my personal affairs takes the form of a sheet of lined notebook paper, crossed with names of people I know. I plan to mark them off as I go along today and find out if they're all right. The handwriting is careful, the most beautiful penmanship I can muster for the most part, but you can't miss the slight shakiness in the letters, a dead giveaway for my anxiety.

Standing in the foyer of the school, I wonder how I should make my way to class—quickly, so that I can find out news about my friends sooner, or slowly, because if somebody I know and love didn't make it, I really don't want to know about it. Not yet. Fourteen years old is too young for a girl as soft as me to lose somebody. I'm not ready.

Before I break down prematurely into tears, I slap some sense into myself. Choir is the first class of my day, and we had a rehearsal during the climax of the revolution, with nary a single absentee, so for at least an hour, I don't have to worry. And as for my further classes, a friend or two is less than okay, it will certainly be a bitter experience, but there is no sense in trying to avoid finding out when nothing more can be done about it.

So I pick up my pace as I stride through the main hall, rubbing my shoulder against one of the several stripes of shimmery blue paint running parallel along the walls, which are washed in similarly metallic silver. It hurts my eyes when I walk through the hall, which is a shame, because it would be pretty if it weren't so bright.

The people in the hall are no less of an eyesore, body-dyed and tattooed and gem-encrusted and clothed in things that should never be used as clothing—and that is only what the dress code doesn't forbid. I find all it rather extreme, and prefer not to partake.

I pass the familiar mural of a long-haired silvery leonine muttation that is Conway High's mascot, pivot turn, and walk down the stairs, catching a glimpse of the little paintings of four of the school's students, tragically deceased while enrolled a few years ago. It's a bitter fact that after this week, there will probably have to be a whole section of the wall dedicated to our dead kids.

But I tell myself not to think of it. _Just keep walking, Soraya. One foot after the other, right, left, _and so on it goes until I pull open the smooth wooden door of the choir room.

When the shift in atmosphere hits me and floods my senses, all my worries melt away, as they always do. This is, hands down, my favorite room in the whole huge building, though I may not be the most unbiased soul. The room's neglect by the administration leaves it with a little more comfortable, broken-in feel; here, the people are less crazy-looking and the silver-and-blue paints less blinding. You can smell the chalk dust and carpet and tattered old music books mingling in the air, a scent that combines surprisingly well with most others—fresh donuts and strong coffee and hot carryout lunches and softly burning candles. One wall is lined with mirrors that make the room look bigger than it really is, and the rest are covered in simple wood and soundproofing material, stiff and crumbly netted stuff that has the look of twine drenched in gray paint. When you're near the wall, fidgeting with it is almost irresistible.

Music is everywhere to be heard and seen and _felt_, wafting from the speakers or the piano or coming from another person, in sheet music and key signature guides on the walls, vibrating through the floor from the occasional low tuba note from the neighboring band hall. It is to be expected of a choir room, or any room in the music wing, really, but somehow, none of us choir kids can help but feel that we truly have something special going on here.

I take a passing glance over the room, knowing that I shouldn't find anyone missing, and see my eclectic ensemble of classmates strewn over the study tables and risers and even across the floor, the sopranos chatting and the guys next to them and half the altos having a "choir orgy"—defined as cuddling and tickling and laughing and piggy-back-riding, always fully clothed—in one corner by a few stacks of chairs.

Shaking my head and smiling, I pull up my usual chair to one of the study tables to be with my group of friends.

Kattie is the first to greet me with a friendly wave and a cheery, "Hi, Soraya!" and Kora, Kattie's best friend, a soprano like her, is soon to do the same. Vanna, the only other freshman alto in our class, waves, along with Nikolai, the oldest guy in the choir at nineteen, and quite a large one—but not far underneath that football-player exterior, he's nothing but a teddy bear.

Hoang, the choir's resident homosexual, stands up from his chair to hug me, towering at over six feet tall without an extra scrap of fat on him. His crazy highlighted hair dangles in my face, and I stiffen, only returning the hug out of courtesy—I like the sentiment, but I'm not really the touchy-feely sort. Even though Hoang isn't _flamboyantly_ gay, he definitely fits some of the stereotypes, doting over the girls in the choir like we're fragile little things, playing with our hair and leaning his head against all of ours. I like him, but I tend to give him his space; the other girls are always returning the affection, hugging him, hanging all over him—particularly energetic Kora and cheery Kattie and even stoic Hollyrose.

No, now that I think of it, especially Hollyrose. Good old Holly—the choir's only senior girl, and hands down the best singer and performer, a lover of the stage and the spotlight, but still quiet and humble and unassuming and _genuine_, something that all her artificial Capitol colors can't mask. She's also in my P.E. class, my usual partner, and in general, she's about the greatest person I know. I admire her so much, and seeing her and Hoang and Nikolai interact is always priceless.

I run my fingers over the grain of the glossy wood table and chuckle to myself before raising my head to see my friend, and then I look around and see that she isn't even at our table.

_That's strange. Hollyrose isn't here. No, no, this can't be right; I thought everyone was going to be _here_ today. Oh, this is bad... _

Panic already rising, I look around the room, trying to locate that familiar dark-skinned, color-adorned figure, but to no avail. Was she at the rehearsal? Horrible scenarios run through my mind and cut any coherent thought into shreds, and I can't remember…

My breath catches in my throat, and as I sit down, I turn to Hoang and Nikolai. "You guys,"—my voice takes on a tremor—"was Holly at rehearsal the other day?"

Hoang shakes his head. "No…I don't think she was in the school…" he drawls in his bass voice and thick accent, and his slow answer nearly kills me.

_I swear, you can't _trust_ this guy half the time. I bet he doesn't even know what he's _talking_ about!_

"Then _where_ _was she_?" This time, my pitch rises to an embarrassing squeak, but I don't care, not with adrenaline and terror beginning to pulse through me. _Not Hollyrose,_ I think, _no, no, anybody but her…_

Thankfully, Nikolai comes in: "I think she had another rehearsal to go to, in a different part of town, y' know? For a community musical."

This is better. Speedy, to-the-point response, and I know Nikolai is also a particular friend of Holly's and more reliable than Hoang. But I still have questions. "Have you heard from her since then?"

"Nah," he says, voice casual. "But I haven't heard any bad news, either. Her family knows me and Hoang. They would have called one of us if something had gone bad-wrong."

This calms me for a time, but when my beating heart slows down, the terrible thoughts rise up again, my mind trying to work around Nikolai's report and prepare myself for the worst. Surely if Hollyrose…_didn't_ make it through, then her family would have other things to think about besides contacting her choir buddies. I might not even find out about her until the end of the week, or even more…

"There is _nothing_ to worry about, Soraya." Nikolai puts a meaty hand on my shoulder, snapping me out of my trance. "If I see her today, then I'll try and find you. Okay?"

I bite my lip. I'll be glad to find out some good news about my friend, but Nik's proposition brings the whole thing—complete with my irrational panic—too close for comfort to Holly's awareness, and something tells me that it wouldn't be in my best interests for that to happen. She's a smart girl. She can easily deduce how I hold her in such high esteem from that alone, which would be strange, considering that she's far from my best friend. I barely know her, really. Why should I express more than a casual concern about her well-being, especially if she's probably safe?

I don't know what's worse, the possibility of Hollyrose finding out, or the fact that I'm so worried about it.

"O-okay, Nik. Just don't tell Holly, okay?"

"Sure." Nobody seems to question my reasoning here. That's good.

I take out my sheet of notebook paper and write on the top line, above all the other people I see more often and have known for longer, the name of "Hollyrose Thorne" in neat, pretty handwriting—to honor her name in print, just in case.

All I can say is that I sincerely hope Nikolai is right.

* * *

><p>The rest of my day moves by at a crawl until at last, I find myself poised at the corner of the intersection between the two freshman halls, staring at the clock, the time—12:42, less than a minute to go—displayed in bright red block numbers. My stuff is haphazardly scattered in my arms, since I usually can't be bothered to use my locker, and at this time of the day, I can't afford to, even though my books and papers are threatening to fall and my lunch bag is propped against my leg so that my ever-sharp pencils are, again, poking at the back of my thigh. I don't shift. I don't blink. I don't even breathe.<p>

I have to time this trip _perfectly_, because at this crossroads, I can often spot Hollyrose heading the opposite direction. This experience has been known to set the tone for the rest of my day, because it's how I let her know that I've got my eye on her, and I expect her to not ditch on me in P.E. class today, because I know she's here and personally, I find it lonely without her—though I've never wanted to tell her that explicitly. Hey, if she doesn't want to do gym class today, then I'm not going to be the one to make her.

But right now, the stakes are much higher, and this could wind up setting the tone for the rest of my school year.

12:43. Time to move.

I round the corner and shuffle down the passage, sticking as far to the right as possible and staring mostly ahead, but I'm sure to throw a few quick glances into the stream of kids going the opposite direction, scanning for that one distinctive face of my friend. I can't glance too long—can't meet her eye at the beginning of the hall, because it would be awkward to hold her gaze that long.

I reach the halfway point of the hall, and there is still no sign of her anywhere. This is the point where I begin to get worried; my heart begins to sink, and I slow my pace almost to a crawl to give her more time to show up. My periodic glances to the other side of the hallway become longer, more daring and less furtive, but I can't stay at this pace forever. I'm slowing down traffic.

_She could just be late,_ the rational side of me says as I turn the corner. _She often is. Look down the staircase now—she might be coming up._

I look down as I pass the stairs, briefly examining every darker-than-normal face and brightly-dressed body to see if any of them belong to her, but she is nowhere to be seen. My only lifeline now is Nikolai's report, but he hasn't come yet, or seventh period P.E., but if I don't see her in the hallway, it's almost a guarantee that I won't see her there.

_She might be absent for one day. Sometimes she does that. She's a senior; she can afford to skip. Besides, she might have some affairs to take care of._

_Or maybe she won't be coming back at all…_

I scurry down a short length of hallway and squelch the thought the best I can, but it keeps poking up again, trying to root and spread and take over. Sitting down hurriedly in my seat, a lone paper drifts from my pile of stuff, and as I pick it up, I see that it's my name paper.

Looking at it, I'm reminded of how lucky I am. Throughout the day as I've trolled the halls and classrooms, I've been checking off names. All my other friends and most of my acquaintances are good to go. Should I really ask for more than I've got already?

But still. Just that _one_ girl…

I have to wonder exactly _why_ I care so much about Holly. This is not a new thing for me; it's been going on ever since the first few months of the school year, when I took a shine to Holly—why _her_?—and wanted so badly to be her friend. I've been virtually staking my happiness for any given day on whether or not one person decides to show up for class (because half the time, she doesn't), and it is _ridiculous_, and I can't even_ stop_…

The world goes black in a flash of rage and sorrow and pain—real _pain_—and when the color comes back, I sense the small figure of the math teacher over me. It doesn't take long to deduce from the tingling in my hand that in my sudden frenzy, I have slammed my fist against my desk. Slammed it hard, too, by the feel of it. And loud, judging by the way everyone's looking at me in stunned silence. Something is very wrong. The sweet, quiet loner girl doesn't have outbursts like that, not in their mind.

"Everyone, the tardy bell has rung," says Mr. Tam, in that tone that may be a very slight Capitol accent, or just a lisp. I can never tell. "Your assignment is on the board. You have all class period. Get to work."

I sink back in my chair, and my face gets hot, not from the fury, but from the embarrassment and dread of knowing that I have been singled out. I don't need this on top of everything else. Preparing to bite the bullet, I look up, but Mr. Tam doesn't really look angry, or even disappointed. Just concerned. This is so different from my normal behavior, he knows that something is up.

"Is there something wrong, Soraya?" he asks, and his surprising gentleness is the last straw. Tears start to spill down my cheeks, go to my throat, block out my words. I just show him the paper.

"What's that?"

"M-my friends," I stammer out. My diction is surprisingly good, considering that I'm crying. "I've been checking to see if they're all okay since…since what happened. Most of them I know for sure are okay, and the rest I haven't seen yet. But there's this one…" I point to Holly's name.

"Is she…?" He trails off, but I know he means to imply _dead_.

"Maybe…probably not…but I just don't know." I wipe my eyes on my sleeve, feeling small and helpless and broken like a little schoolgirl with her feelings hurt. "I was supposed to see her twice already, but both times, she's been gone. I hear she was in the heart of the town when all that chaos broke out."

I break down into more stuttering, imagining all the horrible things that could have happened. Shot dead. Falling. Those mutts. Burned alive by detonating bombs on silver parachutes, even though she's probably too old to have been in that group of kids.

Mr. Tam tries to crane his head to look at the paper. "What's her name? Maybe I know her."

"Hollyrose Thorne. Holly."

"Hmm…" He thinks for a moment. "I know who she is and what she looks like. She won the talent show last year."

"Doesn't surprise me, with that voice of hers."

"But I don't see her, considering she's a senior. How…" He pauses, trying to think of something tactful to say. "How much do you know about her status?"

"Oh…" I shake my head. "Maybe I'm being a bit silly. A couple of particular choir friends of the both of us told me that they hadn't heard anything bad—they hadn't heard anything at all, really. One said that if he saw her during the day, then he'd try to come find me, but he hasn't yet."

"I see. Hasn't she tried to contact you?"

"No. I admire her and everything, think she's pretty great, but we barely know each other. I don't think she even realizes that I care." I catch a glimpse of all the other names on my list, and I add hastily, "But don't think that I only care about her. I care about all my other good friends just as much, really, but I know they're safe, and everyone else close to me is safe, and the others are mostly classmates I haven't spoken to since I was little."

I go on without letting him speak: "I do see her, this girl, one more time today, in my P.E. class. Seventh period. But I didn't see her in choir, or in the hall, so she's almost certainly not going to be there."

Mr. Tam kneels down so that his eyes are level with mine while my chin is down on the desk. His voice grows even softer as he says, "A lot of people are absent today, and most of them will be back in a few days, because they still have stuff to deal with. I'm sure, I am absolutely sure—I am almost willing to put money on it—that there is a logical explanation for this. If you want, I could call the office and check the records for you."

He gets up and turns away as if he's about to do that, but I stop him with a sharp, "No!"

Pivot turn. Mr. Tam looks back at me.

"No," I say again, calmer this time. "I don't know if this makes sense, but…if something did happen, I'd rather not know. Not yet. I don't want to find out like that, from some staff member in the office. They just won't understand."

He reaches down to run his hand once along the side of my head. "I get it. I'll just leave you alone now. Good luck. I hope your friend's okay."

"I know I'm one of the lucky ones," I blurt out. "I haven't lost anyone else, and that's more than a whole lot of people in all of Panem can say. But still, even though I barely know her at all…just _her_…"

"I understand."

"Sorry for going on. I guess I'd better start on my assignment now."

"Consider it done," Mr. Tam says. "You're a smart girl. I'm sure you've already got it down."

I start to shake my head, but Mr. Tam already has his back to me and is walking toward his desk. Through my concern, I can't help but muse how nice he was to help me like that and waive away my assignment, even though we're in a hard geometry unit and I'm well known as the student blessed with the silver tongue (or pen, as it were), but not the mathematical skills to match it.

Hardly a fitting thought, considering my emotional turmoil, but then I realize that he has actually managed to cheer me up. I try to put myself back on thoughts of Hollyrose to see if it will hold up, and I can't seem to cry any tears. Maybe this will last until seventh period, or when I see Nikolai and he delivers the news that I am a bit more hopeful about now.

_Thank you, thank you, thank you, Mr. Tam._

* * *

><p>My next class of the day, an easy fitness class, begins to roll by relatively quickly. We don't have anything to do, nobody bothers me, and I'm able to just go to sleep and keep my mind off my pessimistic thoughts.<p>

_Yes, I definitely owe Mr. Tam a thank-you for this,_ is the last lucid thought I have before I drift off.

But it isn't long before I jolt awake with the shrill tone of the dismissal bell and am out the door before it's even finished ringing, with images of revolution and bullets and falling and mutts and bombs and _fire_ still flashing through my head from my dreams.

I ignore the concerned—almost panicked—questions of my teacher behind me as I push through the thickening crowd that I would normally give more than due courtesy and patience. I ignore their hasty apologies and the occasional shout of "Watch out!" and I even ignore the faces and voices of old acquaintances, other ones on my list. I don't even think about checking them off.

I race through the foyer, blinded by the light gleaming on the paint, magnified by my tears, past the lion mutt mural and down the stairs, shielding my eyes from the paintings of the dead students, into the elective wing, past the cafeteria, past the vending machines, past the music hall and the choir room…

My thoughts begin to race and scream and blot out any rational judgment as I charge past the stairs and pull on the old athletic hall door so hard that it slams back against the doorstopper even though it was locked. I take a good look at all the kids in my class lined up in the hall as I run toward the dressing room, but there is no luck.

_Hollyrose isn't here. She's not here, she isn't here, she's never going to be here…_

In the dressing room, I don't even stop to talk to the other girls at their lockers—more acquaintances to be checked off the list—as I violently turn and rattle my padlock open, change into my gym clothes, and burst back through the door into the hall in a matter of seconds, hairs all flyaway and clothes not straightened out, but I don't care.

I take one last look at the kids sitting against the walls, dispersed throughout the hallway. My suspicions are confirmed: Holly is missing once more, and this time, I am not surprised. My mind isn't spinning out of control—if anything, it's slowing down, because if nothing else, then at least I won't have to deal with it anymore today.

There is no anger, no fury, no desire to yell and scream and fight. All that's left is sorrow as I spy an empty place at the end of the hall, where there is nobody else. I head over there and crumple against the wall in defeat, burying my head in my folded arms so that nobody will see me cry.

I don't know how long I stay like that before I venture to wipe my tears and look up, and by chance, my gaze finds the open doors of the athletic hall just in time to see a wiry dark figure fly through the entrance. Through my eyes, the person is far away and blurry from tears, but I see that it's a girl, a student, and she's running on her spindly legs with small steps. Probably something bad is going on.

_What in the hell is _her_ problem?_

I snort to myself, in no mood for sympathy, until I realize that she's reached the line of kids against the wall and she's staring straight ahead, showing no intention of stopping.

_Could she be running toward me? That's ridiculous. What reason does she even _have_ to be running toward me?_

The girl keeps running, and soon, she's close enough for me to see the utter lack of odd clothing or alterations on her person.

_Maybe she _is_ running toward me._

Before I can even register what's going on, she's in front of me, and I'm yanked up by my wrists and pulled into a tight embrace, with my face in the girl's shoulder.

"Oh, Soraya," I hear her saying in a clear, low voice that is painfully familiar, "thank goodness you're okay!" Then, I can feel her breath catch in her chest, and she pulls me away. "Sorry, sorry," she stammers. "I just forgot."

"Forgot…what…?" My voice is left weak and trailing. I'm too busy taking in the girl's frenzied and ecstatic face, trying to place her, because she looks and sounds so familiar.

_No. No, no, it can't be…_

"Touching. That you don't really like touching. You know, the hug and all…"

_It is._

And this time, I am willing to make an exception.

"Holly!" I shout, louder than I would normally dare, and I lurch forward to hug her. By the time I do, my eyes are dry, and all that's left is a grin that feels like it's going to split my face in two and it hurts, but I don't care, because Hollyrose Thorne is here at last.

It takes a lot to pry myself away from her, since I don't want to overstep the natural boundaries in our friendship, but she's chuckling and shaking her head, holding me at arm's length.

"No," she says in her masterful deadpan, which she can transition to at the drop of a hat. "It's President Snow. Unfortunately for all of us." A look of disdain seems to flicker across her face, flitting away so fast that I easily could have imagined it.

"Gosh, I hardly even recognized you! You don't look like yourself, y' know." I glance over her navy blue pants, stylishly cut and torn in some places, her lacey solid gray sweater, her skin in its natural dark brown shade, and her coarse neck-length black hair that's been tied in a simple ponytail with no shortage of flyaway tufts. Strangely, I think she looks _more_ like herself now than she ever did with her always-changing tattoos and skin dyes and hair colors with odd ornaments and colored contacts and crazy outfits. This Holly feels _real_, because even though she was always "real" beneath all that stuff, the new appearance finally brings congruity to her image.

I kind of like it. I could use a kindred spirit in that regard.

Holly points this out flawlessly: "Well, Soraya, it's not like you don't stand out in a crowd yourself."

She gestures to my own appearance, only notable in that it's _not_, for the Capitol. I only follow trends when I like them, not because I have to. Can't catch me dead in weird clothes. Natural pale skin and blue eyes and dark golden-brown hair, hung only with the occasional embellishment: a bead here, a feather extension there. No dermal alterations, save for the occasional streak of a favorite color on my extremities—and nothing permanent, ever.

"Yeah, well, I've always been like this," I counter. "What gives?"

"Oh, isn't it _wonderful_?" Hollyrose shakes my shoulders, beaming. Her teeth are crooked. I've never noticed that before. "I'm going to start dressing like this every single day! Well, nicer than _this_, because I like nice clothes, but…you know what I mean."

"Why?"

"Because I _can_!" Unusually for her, her low, warm voice is electrified with enthusiasm, and she's bouncing on her toes, looking like she's ready to burst. "I want to let the whole world know who I really am. For the first time in my entire life, nobody's watching, nobody's listening, the Capitol doesn't have to hide behind cameras and microphones, I don't have to dress in those insane clothes, don't have to speak with some stupid accent—"

"Not that you ever did anyway."

"—and I don't have to worry and be afraid that I'll be caught and killed anymore just because I grew up in District Eleven!"

"You _what_?"

I stagger backward, unable to believe my own ears. Our very own Hollyrose, Conway's senior class, active member of the choir and theater department, from District 11. Really, I had always suspected it somewhere in the back of my mind—the skin and lack of accent were potential giveaways. Of course, there are dark-skinned Capitol citizens with a neutral Panem accent like hers and mine, but something had always told me that this wasn't really the case with her.

Hollyrose's face grows alarmed, and I realize that I probably looked shocked. "That's okay with you, right? I know you're a born Capitol kid, but you seemed different…"

"No!" I assure her. "No, no, no, that's fine. My folks raised me right. They told me never, _ever_ to think that people from the Districts are worth any less than us. They were just born in a different place, that's all." I shake my head, smiling fondly at her. "Good old Hollyrose Thorne, always full of surprises."

At my use of her full name, she gives a quiet gasp, then shakes her head. "That girl is dead. Hollyrose isn't here."

_Oh, but you're _alive_, and you _are_ here…_

"She never was, really. It's Holly now. Just Holly."

I nod, letting it sink in. "Holly Thorne."

"No." She shakes her head again, slower this time. "Holly _Shears_. 'Thorne' just went well with Hollyrose; it's not really my last name. Shouldn't be too hard to get used to. I mean, you call me Holly most of the time, right?" And she just turns and sits in her usual position against the wall. "Well, maybe not for you. I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm kinda gonna miss the old name. I might keep it as a stage name, though."

_Stage name? Oh, yeah, aspiring actress. Forgot. _"I bet this whole thing was just another role for you to play, huh?" I quip, but I instantly regret it, fearing that I've offended her by writing off a never-ending façade she's had to put up for who knows how long as a mere _role_, as if she didn't risk losing everything if she got caught.

To her credit and my relief, Holly just sighs. "My parents say that's probably how I got good at acting, having to do it every day for eight years. Anyway, it's a role I've been playing for far too long, and it's time for the costume to come off."

"Waxing poetic today, aren't you?"

She chuckles, and I take out my paper, examining the remaining names. I begin to check them off, recounting the faces and voices from the hallway and locker room, until everyone is accounted for.

At last, my sharpened pencil makes a satisfying scratch against the paper as I cross out the name "Hollyrose Thorne" and write "Holly Shears" next to it, then mark that off as well. So that's that. Everyone's okay. For the first time all day, I can finally breathe easy.

Several minutes pass by in silence as I observe the new Holly from behind a book I'm pretending to read. I had never before noticed that she was always so _tall_—from the looks of it, at least six inches taller than my five-foot-one, probably more—and so incredibly _skinny_, much too skinny. She can't be much more than a hundred pounds, I figure. Every day, she comes in eating a bag of chips or something from the vending machine, so I doubt it's a real problem, but her knees and elbows are knobby and her limbs are spindly and her features are sharp. In her sweater, you can definitely see where her ribcage begins, even if you can't see her individual ribs.

She also looks a bit darker than I thought, and there's nothing to distract me from her face, which is, I realize, not _conventionally_ attractive, from her wide forehead to her large, almost bulging eyes set in bony sockets, her nose that's sharper than most District 11-ers, her teeth in need of correction, and her strong, tapering jaw.

But then she turns her head slightly to tuck some hair behind her ear, and it occurs to me that when she's standing upright, her tall, stark figure combined with her angular features is rather imposing, striking, even downright lovely if you think about it. Yes, Holly really _is_ a beautiful girl. It's just the kind of beauty you need to think about.

I shift my position and tap my pencil against the floor. The silence is stifling. Holly probably doesn't think too much about it—she's always like this, and usually, so am I, but _somebody_ has to do the talking between us if I want to become real friends with her (and oh, do I ever), so it might as well be me.

"Hey, Holly," I say before I can stop myself. She looks up quicker than expected. I frantically scramble for something to comment on, and find my many pencils in the front pocket of my bag. "Uh, guess how many pencils I have today."

Being familiar with this particular idiosyncrasy of mine, Holly rolls her eyes. "How many?"

"Exactly sixty-nine. I counted."

"Yay! Sixty-nine!" She laughs. "What in Panem do you _do_ with so many pencils?"

I shrug. I get that quite often, so you'd think I'd know the answer. I think it was a challenge from a friend in the eighth grade, and I just ran with it, but I go for a more interesting response: "Oh, I just sharpen them enough to be able to play darts with them. I'm getting pretty good, actually."

Lies, lies, lies, all for the sake of her entertainment. I figure now that to avoid lying myself into a corner later on, I'm going to have to learn how to play Pencil Darts in my spare time.

"Plus, I can use them as a weapon…and on the nicer side, it doesn't hurt to loan them to people. Knowing you helped somebody out is a good feeling."

"I guess Nikolai doesn't call you the Pencil Fairy for nothing."

I laugh at the use of my old epithet, given to me at the very beginning of the year, when I brought a whole pack of pencils for no good reason. "Nope."

Silence again, and we both return to our respective books. It's not long before I start ruminating on the conversation, kicking myself for saying something so _simple_ after she just came out and told me what had once been her most closely-guarded secret. I want to ask her, _How did you do it? Why did you do it? How old were you when you left? What about your other family? How did you avoid getting caught for so long?_

But instead I blurt out, "Where _were_ you all day, anyway?"

"In choir? Oh, I was busy sorting out some affairs."

"Affairs?" I smack myself upside the head. _Affairs_, how could I have been so callous? Family death, friends, damaged property; it could have been anything, and I didn't even realize! "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."

"Huh? No!" She grins. "I mean _theater_ affairs! The show must go on, after all. But other than that, I'm good. Nobody I know was hurt."

Thank goodness. As eager as I would be to lend her a comforting shoulder to cry on, I hate to see people upset, especially friends, and with her, it would be unbearable.

"Same goes for me. I guess somebody's been looking out for us," I say, parroting what my grandmother always said to me whenever I got a lucky break. I was never quite sure exactly who or what "_somebody_" was, and I'm still vague on it, because she's suspiciously vague when talking about it to me, as if it's one of those things that she would be shot dead for saying out loud. Now that Panem is free, I need to talk to her about it soon.

Holly nods. "Yeah, and where, exactly, were _you_ all break?" she asks. "I was trying to find a way to tell all the choir kids that I was okay, since I was the only one who wasn't at rehearsal and everything."

I bite my lip. I don't want to explain to her that I spent the whole three days holed up in my room writing on my computer, not daring to answer my phone (not that it ever rings for me, anyway) or get online or go outside. I didn't want to see my bright, colorful home city lying in shambles, or hear any bad news about my friends, or see all the people in the streets crying. I hate seeing people cry when there's nothing I can do for them, and I'm not sad, so I can't even suffer with them. It makes me feel bad.

So I just change the topic: "Hey, look, Coach is here. C'mon, Holly. It's time to go in."

* * *

><p><strong>Closing Notes:<strong> So, do you like it? Too choppy? Too long? Does it end too abruptly? (I thought so. I'm working on that. Next few chapters will be shorter and hopefully run smoother.) Any mechanical errors? Other criticisms? What am I doing right? Please, leave a nice review, and if you have any criticism, make it constructive so that I can work on fixing it.


	2. Astrid and Coach

**Notes:** So...second chapter, in which we meet two more important characters.

Again, these characters were inspired by people in my own life, but the group dynamics weren't really quite so...extreme.

Unusually for me, there isn't too much necessary backstory to cover before I get to the good stuff. The plot really starts to get rolling next chapter. For now, this is just a short (for me) little snapshot of the lives of the characters.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter 2: The Three Musketeers…and Coach<br>**__**or, A Day in the Life of Seventh Period Gym Class**_

Our teacher, Coach Kaiser Allis, is a big, lumbering fellow always dressed in baggy blue and gray, with a signature whistle around his neck. He is a man of few words—if he speaks at all, it's to give the class orders, or to flirt with his female students.

Or so Holly and I suspect, both of us remembering when my former science teacher—also a coach—was fired for having "inappropriate relationships" with his students. She was the one who observed that it was always the coaches who did this (something that my mother once told me), and added, "The other coaches do it, too. Even Coach Allis, a little bit." And from then on, it was something of a running joke between us that he never interacted with his male students just to be friendly; only his female ones—and preferably the attractive ones at that.

"I had a friend last year who was a senior, in speech class with him," she told me once. "And he would _flirt with her_…wow, he wasn't even discreet about it." She put her hand to the side of her forehead and smirked. "I feel so bad about teasing her about it."

It makes me wonder if I should be worried that he calls me, Holly, and this other friend of mine, Astrid Thom, his "favorite students."

Astrid herself comes in late with a pass. She explains something about it to Coach, but her speech is heavily accented—not a stereotypical Capitol accent, but one that I can't place. She normally speaks in clipped sentences and single words to hide it, often trailing off at the ends of those sentences, and combined with the accent, I can barely understand a word she says.

"Got it. Go sit down, dear," Coach tells her, and he sends her off with a pat on the back.

She takes her seat on the floor next to me and waves. "Hi, Soraya."

"Oh…hey, Astrid. Glad to see you."

The girl shakes her head, wearing her constant good-natured expression, and tells me—

"Quinn?" I repeat, not sure exactly what she said, and what she means by it.

"Quynh. Q-U-Y-N-H," she corrects me. "My real name. My family…from District Three."

So _that's_ what that accent is. I feel so utterly ignorant for not being able to identify it, now that I know better. This is probably how the Districters see Capitolites, boorish and self-centered and uninformed; people wouldn't know a District accent if it slapped them in the face.

Holly, sitting directly in front of me, turns her head over her shoulder at me, smiling. I whisper back, "Her, too? Who's next? _Coach_?"

It does strike me that Coach himself is only a little bit lighter-skinned than Holly, and he has a certain emotionally scarred demeanor about him, characteristic of people who've been through a lot of fear and turmoil and danger in a short, intense amount of time. We've all seen too much of too many Hunger Games victors to not recognize the signs. It's actually a distinct possibility.

"So…uh, _Quynh_, do you want me to call you that from now on?"

"No. Been called Astrid my whole life. To fit in."

Somehow, all this surprises me even less than when Holly told me of her District Eleven upbringing. Holly can hide behind smoke and mirrors because that's what she does, and she could pass for a Capitol girl anyway. Short of permanent alteration, there's nothing much Astrid can do for herself, though I do notice that she's washed off the makeup that puts a little more color in her ashy skin, and taken out the green contact lenses that make her dark eyes look rounder. I don't know what she dresses like on a daily basis, if she wears elaborate clothes to mitigate her obvious appearance—she's older than me and not in any of my classes, so I always see her in her gym T-shirt and shorts. For all I know, she could be a plain dresser, like me.

"Okay, listen up!"

About a quarter of the class, including me and Astrid, ever the obedient pleaser types, snaps to attention. The rest go about talking and staring into space and barely listening to Coach at all. He never seems to mind.

"We're starting a new unit today."

At this, Holly and I exchange glances. We've been stuck in a deadlock for a week, with us not really doing anything (ostensibly, we were playing badminton), but knowing that we were probably going to face a harder sports unit in the near future. The two of us have been waiting on tenterhooks to find out what it will be.

The fatal word falls from Coach's mouth: "Basketball," and the three of us release a half-groan, half-laugh.

"So, I want you all to partner up—"

"Soraya, you're my partner!" Holly whispers.

"—and get a basketball for the two of you. We're just gonna start with some exercises."

I stand up and make my way over to the cart full of basketballs and get a purple one—my favorite color. Today, I find myself feeling particularly brazen, considering that I thought I was going to lose somebody important to me, and it's important to tell her how I feel about her now:

"Hey, Holly, thanks for always being my partner. I know I make a lousy one, but…I'm glad. Usually, I'm too quiet to ask anyone to partner up with me, and somehow, I always end up being partners with the teacher."

She casts a knowing glance back at old flirt-with-his-girl-students Coach, and says, "Yeah, that happens to me, too." But she doesn't say it in a way that sounds like she's agreeing with me; relating to my experience just to make conversation. She says it more like she's comforting me.

I bounce the ball a couple of times, fidgeting, and then see Astrid walk by me and up to Coach, explaining to him that she doesn't have a partner.

"Oh, then I'll be your partner," he tells her with a smile that's a little too friendly, and I instantly feel awful.

"Astrid…" I begin, but she turns and cuts me off, telling me it's okay, she doesn't mind, really. I just shrug it off. Holly is already my partner, and I've already gone out of my way to thank her for it, so I don't see any reason to change it.

* * *

><p>"There it goes! There it goes! It's bouncing away! Get it, Soraya, get it!"<p>

I break away from my position in line and stumble off after the runaway basketball, laughing so hard that my eyes are blurry and the world starts to bend and lean to one side…

And then I realize that I'm about to take a nose-dive into the floor.

I shut my eyes, bracing myself for the hard impact, and skid across the smooth polyurethane before coming to a burning stop. After the initial pain subsides, I sense somebody's presence over me, and tilt my head, expecting to see Holly, and I do—and Astrid is next to her, looking honestly concerned, and against the florescent lighting, I can see Coach's face silhouetted between theirs.

"Hey, guys," I say, still laughing. "Did you see that?"

"Okay, you're smiling, that's a good sign." Holly hands me the basketball, which I tuck under one arm, not bothering to get up.

"So, how'd I look?"

"Surprisingly graceful. Smoothest fall I ever saw," she says, straight-faced, as she and Astrid and Coach all try to help me to my feet. I know they've all seen enough of my falls that they're not really surprised when it happens anymore.

"Wish we could catch all your blunders on video, the three of you. We could make a music montage." Coach's glance flits to the floor and back. "And be sure to tie your shoes next time, Miss Annison."

I follow his line of sight, and see that he's right: both of my shoelaces have come untied. Of _course_. I give a nervous laugh as Coach trudges off—he doesn't really walk; he picks up one leg and swings it in front of the other like an old badger—and Astrid asks me if I'm okay. At least, I think that's what she's trying to say.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Used to it, really."

The two girls nod in agreement. Combined, we've definitely taken enough falls to make a music montage and then some, because the three of us are the weakest, clumsiest, and all-around worst athletes in all of Panem. It's why we're friends in the first place—birds of a feather flock together, and there's strength in numbers. I'm convinced that if it weren't for them, I would be the laughingstock of the class, but when I've got them with me, _we're_ the ones who're laughing.

"That's how it works," I like to tell them. "When you're being faced with imminent death by P.E. alone, it's torture. When you're facing imminent death together, with friends, it's a bonding experience."

I repeat it like a broken record whenever I can, and why not? I'm actually rather proud of myself for coming up with it.

* * *

><p>"A'ight, listen up!" Coach bellows from across the gym, barely giving me time to recover from my fall. "We got ten minutes left. I want y'all to get with your partners and shoot some baskets."<p>

We turn to the nearest basket and take turns for a while, making some but missing most of the time because we're laughing too hard to think.

As we always do amidst the hysterics, we begin to fall into a steady rhythm of _thunk-thunk-swish_, pass, _thunk-thunk-swish_, "Whose turn is it?", "I think it's mine," _thunk-thunk_, toss, miss. Lather, rinse, repeat.

This is usually when I lose track of things, and I start musing. Today, I observe my friends, the Gym Class Trio, the Three Musketeers. It's hard when you have a group of three sometimes, because you have a dynamic duo plus a third wheel who's maybe a bit insecure about being in the trio. I'm sympathetic to that role, because my shy nature has put me in it so many times over the years, but it also feels good to be in on the "duo" aspect, so I hardly want to stop.

Astrid tells me, "I'm going to do it backwards!" and turns her back to the goal. She throws up the ball, and to everyone's amazement, it sinks into the basket perfectly.

She's an interesting character, that Astrid. She's a head shorter than me and, pound for pound, a bit stockier, but of all of us, she's the least horrible athlete. It's probably because for all her shyness, she's not afraid to make a fool of herself, and gives it her all, even though she knows she's not the best.

"You try it!" Astrid tosses me the ball, her grin mischievous, and I get a sinking feeling of dread.

"No," I say. "No, no, nononono…"

"Yes." She reaches to grab me by the shoulders and positions me rather forcefully so that I can make the shot. That's another thing about Astrid. She plays rough.

Not wanting to fight her, I make only a passing attempt to toss the ball behind my head…

…and it goes in.

Holly and Astrid start cheering and patting me on the back, giving me a rush of pride. That's how _I_ roll—I don't necessarily give everything my all like Astrid, but I'll always try it at least once out of sheer obedience and a hatred for conflict. Sometimes, about as often as not, it actually works out.

"Your turn," Astrid says to Holly, but Holly only shakes her head. Astrid knows better than to waste her time here, so she leaves her alone.

And that's what makes Holly, the tallest and thinnest girl in the class, the worst athlete I have ever seen, but it also saves her a great deal of embarrassment—she doesn't dress out, doesn't participate, doesn't _try_ whenever she can get away with it. If I were smarter, I would do what she does and save myself the trouble, but my participation grade is important to me.

As I'm lining up for another shot, a familiar low beep-beep-beep comes over the loudspeakers, signaling an announcement, and the class slows to a halt when the voice of the lady in the office—nobody knows exactly who she is—informs us:

"Attention, students and teachers, please pardon this interruption. It has…it has come to our attention that with the…recent events in the city that there may have been a few…_student casualties_ among the damage."

The hairs on my arm raise as I think of all the students going through the torture that I went through today, and the ones whose outcome will not be as good as mine. The woman is aware of this, and sounds genuinely sympathetic. Panem bless her soul. She does her job well, really cares about what she tells us, and we hardly even know who she is.

"We are blessed enough that we have very few of these casualties. There will be a temporary memorial in the hallway by the attendance office with the names and the pictures of these students, though a more permanent memorial will soon be instated on school grounds. If any students are particularly affected by these horrible tragedies,"—she means it—"then there will be counselors on standby for as long as there need be. Thank you for your attention, and good luck to all of you."

I find it to be an oddly touching and poignant sign of respect from the students—normally loud, unruly P.E. students—that after the announcement, it takes a while for them to get back to what they were doing.

* * *

><p>The time to dress out and leave comes too soon—fifty-five minutes isn't enough—but I'm always sure to get dressed quickly and save the last few minutes of class to gossip about choir business with Holly.<p>

"Did you _see_ Hoang's hair today?"

"No," she says, a ghost of a smile appearing on her face. Knowing Hoang, this is bound to be good.

I bury my face in the soft fleece of my jacket, laughing. "Oh, you wouldn't believe it! It's blond and orange and green and deep red and black and all different colors, and—get this—it's sticking up in all different directions!"

Holly gives a mock gasp. "Really? Oh, wow, I can't wait to see it! What did he do to it?"

"He says he waxed it like that." I can barely speak for all my laughter, but I manage to say, "He probably spent a good hour on that hair this morning, and yet he looks like he just rolled out of bed!"

"Oh, that is _so_ messed up!"

The bell rings, and we continue chatting as we walk down the hallway, until we run into Nikolai right before the foyer, going the opposite direction.

"Hey, Nik."

"Hi, Holly." He gives her a genial wave like he always does, and then says to me, "I assume you know that Holly's okay now, right?"

_Oh, shoot._ "Yeah. Thanks for telling me so soon, because that saved me a _lot_ of trouble today." I try to make my voice positively ooze sarcasm, but it almost comes out sincere instead. I don't really _do_ sarcasm—that's an area best left to Holly.

"Sorry. Couldn't get in touch with you." Nik turns to Holly. "You know, Soraya over here was absolutely worried sick about you today. Like, on the verge of tears."

_Nikolai, you idiot, I told you not to tell her!_

Too late. Holly puts her hand on my shoulder, like she always does; it's most people's primary mode of communication with me. "You were worried about _me_?" she asks, voice rising considerably in pitch.

"Yeah," I admit, because there's nothing else that I can say now. To counter, I desperately try to downplay it. "I mean, you're my friend, and I knew that everyone else was okay, so why wouldn't I be worried about you?"

"Aw, that's really sweet of you." She smiles and jostles my shoulder. "It's always good to know somebody's looking out for you."

Without further ado, she waves goodbye to both of us, and I'm left with wide smiles and a swelling heart for the rest of the day.

* * *

><p><strong>Closing Notes:<strong> So...nothing really to say here, except for the usual stuff about reviews. Next chapter will be along shortly.

**Edit:** Dang it, I just now realized that I had changed some names for this chapter (last-ditch effort to hide the similarities to my friends, not that it would help), but forgot to put the changes into effect for the first chapter, so now, I had two characters who had two different names each! Geez, you guys, you can't let me get away with an error like that. But it's fixed now, since the new names didn't really fit the characters anyway.


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